It was, as ever, a swelteringly hot and sultry morning. Yasmina, the stunning
Sultana marched reluctantly behind the two soldiers who strode resolutely through the
labyrinthine corridors of her palace.
The Sultana was ruler of the town in this province of the peninsula. Upon the death
of her father, the Sultan, the Talasian overlords had not opposed her taking over her
father’s reign. Many of the town dignitaries were outraged at the appointment, humiliated
by being subservient to a woman who, as princess, had been a profligate and an almost
undisguised man-hunter too. Nevertheless, the Talasian Emperor, who ruled the whole of the
peninsula by conquest, did not object to her ruling and so it was all but impossible for
anyone to mount a challenge as a result. Consequently, the Sultana was not popular with
such notables as the mullah, the cadi, or the head judge.
Yasmina followed the soldiers to meet her accusers. Her status as town dignitary
would not give her immunity to physical punishment if sufficient numbers of male,
influential members of society, demanded it. Yasmina looked at the long, four-foot rattans
that the soldiers carried and the sight of those canes made her heart quiver. She knew
well, from her days as a princess, what a stern whipping across her buttocks with such
instruments was like and she was not chasing a repeat demonstration.
Eventually they reached the reception hall of the palace, where her revered guests
had assembled to await her. There was principally the cadi and the head judge, accompanied
by the procurator and the mullah. They all stood stony faced, awaiting her attendance.
“Greetings noble sirs,” Yasmina bowed in respect. The warm introduction did nothing
to melt the stern, hard features of the austere, grim faced, bearded men that awaited
her.
“We have not come here Sultana, to exchange greetings as equals,” began the cadi.
“I have received unequivocally, news that again you have been slandering me and talking
unjustly about myself and the work I do in this town,” he continued. Yasmina did not give
him any sign of emotion, but returned his hard stare with a calm, almost serene gaze. “I
said before, that were the offence repeated, I would demand justice. It appears my
leniency towards your slandering of me last time Yasmina, was taken by you as a sign of
weakness. It is a mistake and one that I now intend to remedy!” Said the cadi sternly.
Any hopes that Yasmina may have harboured regarding an opportunity to talk to the
cadi, evaporated there and then. He had obviously made his decision and only her pain and
suffering would placate the furious judge now. He looked at the stunningly beautiful
Sultana with hatred burning in his eyes. Her beauty was undeniable; long tresses of brown
hair fell to her shoulders. Hazel eyes shone brightly and her perfectly round face shone
with health and a honey hue. She carried a well-weighted body easily with her height and
full erect breasts displayed large, pert nipples, visible through the thinness of her
skimpy bra, beneath her light jacket. Perhaps the beautiful Sultana became aroused
surrounded by so much malevolent anger, even though, or perhaps because, it had been
aroused by her. Just twenty-two years old, her full voluptuous figure was outlined
superbly by the thinness of her blue, baggy harem suit. The jacket of which came to her
waist and the cropped legged loose pants, ended fully six inches above her ankle.
The cadi eyed her malevolently and understood why the mullah disapproved so
strongly of her. Her love of men and willingness to indulge that emotion had made her
unpopular in the past, though she had, more by her status than careful dealings, managed
to avoid a religiously ordained scourging at his firm hand. The cadi however, had beaten
her in the past, when she was a princess. He had been instrumental in her suffering the
bastinado upon the pretty, upturned soles of her soft feet, for improper behaviour at one
of her father’s functions. He had voiced his outrage at her father and the Sultan agreed
to her beating thereafter. A punishment the cadi insisted on witnessing, if only to ensure
that her status did not stay the whipper’s hand, or she slyly omitted to remove her
slippers to spare herself the rod. A trick the cadi was sure she was not above.
Nevertheless, on this occasion, nothing was going to spare her the full fury of a
proper, judicial thrashing and the cadi couldn’t wait to put her to it. His anticipation
was almost tangible. His mouth fair watered at the thought of seeing the beauteous Yasmina
stripped and bound to the flogging bench.
“As you will see Sultana, I have taken the liberty of appointing two of my own
soldiers, for I intend to beat you for your temerity and obstinate disregard for
propriety!” announced the cadi. Yasmina returned his gaze, for the first time, he had the
satisfaction of seeing lines of concern on her beautiful face.
“Am I to be whipped like a common cur, without an opportunity to reply to my
accusers?” asked the Sultana.
“You attempt to deny then the slanderous comments you have made of me and my
favoured wives, you foul mouthed bitch?” spat the cadi. “Were you not the Sultana, I would
slap you to the floor, you venomous snake! Do not think now though that I am to be denied
my revenge,” he fumed. Yasmina was unable to deny any of the cadi’s accusations, though
the prospect of a beating at the hands of his men seemed as unpalatable as it had minutes
earlier, following them down the corridors, with the hateful wands waving malevolently in
the air. Yasmina had to accept that she had no option but to offer herself up to what fate
had in store. There was very little else she could do. Despite her fear, having four
powerful men watching her and her alone, strip for a beating ordered on her by them, made
her feel strangely aroused. Fear was the principle emotion, but underlying it was an odd
feeling of something the Sultana could only recognise as sexual stimulation. As she moved,
she was aware of a distinct moistening between her legs. It was an emotion she was at a
loss to imagine why she was experiencing.
“Very well cadi. I cannot deny that I said unpleasant things about you. I did!” the
Sultana commented in a matter of fact way. “Nevertheless, I am still your Sultana and as
such, I would have thought above a thrashing!”
“Oh did you Sultana?” beamed the cadi victoriously. “Well, in that case Yasmina,
you were mistaken. I, as a dignitary of this town can take any wrongdoer, whoever she may
be, regardless of rank or favour and impose whatever punishment I and the law see fit, to
correct any wrong thereby done and to you Sultana, I feel the only way to silence your
obdurate slander is to take it out of that pretty, though I am sure, tender hide of
yours,” the cadi looked resigned and ready to impose his sentence on the lovely Sultana
and she was quite unable to stop him from doing so.
“I can understand master, that you feel slighted by my comments and I can also see
that I have lent my private thoughts to a loose tongued fool who has seen fit to repeat
them to all in sundry. No matter, I shall deal with that, but you must see sire, that my
comments are nothing and matter to no-one,” insisted Yasmina.
“I see Yasmina, that those thoughts you have seen fit to announce, are the comments
of a Sultana and are seen by those about you as just that and therefore, should not be
uttered lightly or without due care and thought. I am to administer a flogging onto you
Sultana, that in future, you are mindful of that,” announced the cadi.
“I will make whatever reparations you feel fit, pay any fine, open the Royal harem
to you, for the master to take his pick, anything, if you will desist from this course
cadi,” pleaded Yasmina.
“The only reparation I will accept Sultana, is the sound of those rattans kissing
your sweet, round backside and your screams of pain that will surely follow. You will
accept Sultana, or I will have no choice but to have you taken and dragged to the whipping
block. The choice fair Yasmina, is yours,” the cadi was enjoying his victory over the
delicious Sultana. He painted a most unpleasant picture for her, but, it seemed, he would
have his way.
“I trust that in deference to my status cadi, you will allow me to be whipped in
private?” Asked Yasmina. The cadi smiled.
“I am a man of repute and respectability Yasmina: something I fear you are about to
learn a little of. I would not dream of letting common palace slaves witness their
mistress’ beating. I have ordered for the whipping block to be placed in your court and
all girls, excepting your fan slaves, ushered from the room. We will be undisturbed and
the only witnesses will be the floggers and the learned men I have requested attend as
official witnesses here” and the men, as yet unannounced, bowed in respect as the cadi
waved his hand towards them, “and myself,” he concluded. Yasmina nodded in respect and led
the way herself, back to her quarters. The unaccountable arousal Yasmina was experiencing,
had not abated. In fact it had increased to a level Yasmina could only have described as
sheer lust.
As she drifted gracefully along the corridor, her loose silks flapping noiselessly
about her legs, Yasmina could feel the wetness of her undeniable desire between her legs.
The thought of the four authoritative men staring at her back as she walked, almost made
her feel naked and incredibly desirable. As she went, her curvaceous bottom swaying
seductively, her light, golden coloured mules tapped gently on the stone floor. As Yasmina
imagined, the cadi eyed her broad, well-padded bottom. The floggers, their canes in hand,
eyed her round, voluptuous curves, that would soon be bound, stripped and open for their
gaze and the brutal slap of their wands’.
They entered her Royal Court and as the cadi had promised, the usual attendant
girls and Royal guard had left. All that remained were her two, familiar, buxom black
slave-girls. They stood, impassively, their brooding, extravagantly pretty faces, full
with the familiar pout of girls whose tongues had been wrenched, a very common
prerequisite for fan-girls of the Royal Court. Stripped to the waist, they both wore
matching, powder blue, voluminous harem pants, their generous flesh, rounded at their
stomachs, both girls were blessed with large, well weighted breasts that accentuated their
every move with a sway and bounce of their very own. Barefoot they stood, large fans in
hand, awaiting their mistress’ return, their black corkscrew hair falling in a cascade of
curls and tails, down to their honey brown, broad shoulders, that would have graced any
galley slave-girl. They did not seem to even notice that anyone had entered the hall, much
less the venerated personages of their mistress, the Sultana and the cadi. However,
Yasmina’s attention was not on her black fan slaves, but on the heavy wooden block that
stood, positioned pride of place, in the very centre of her court. It was the familiar
block, made solely for fixing errant girls to, in order to hold them firm and still for a
flogging.
“The Sultana will remove her top!” ordered the cadi and, since she could not
resist, she meekly opened her jacket and let it slip silently to the floor. She stood mute
before the gazes of the cruel men, wearing just her dark blue skimpy bra that scarcely
contained her large round breasts, heavy with their size, but still full and firm with her
youth. They stood looking at each other and Yasmina, uncomfortable with her impending
fate, was also desperate for her attackers not to detect her obvious arousal. Her bra
would be the next garment the cadi would be sure to demand she remove. Surely none of the
staring men would fail to see her large nipples, fiercely erect with the burning desire
that unaccountably raged hot in her belly. The cadi ordered as expected, “continue
Sultana, your bra too,” and Yasmina reluctantly slipped her hands to the thin straps of
her bra and released it, letting her great orbs go free. They swung and waved deliciously
upon release. The men feasted their eyes on her superb, newly stripped curves, the large
nipples standing proud and darkly contrasted against her honey-hued skin. Little wonder
that so many men had dreamt of lying with the lusting, curvaceous beauty. She was all the
cadi had heard of and more. The last time he had seen her stripped thus, he had ordered
her down for the bastinado, but the young beauty had grown considerably since then. Lovely
before, she was stunning now and though the assembled group were not unused to seeing
pretty girls stripped for a flogging, none of them could help but feast his eyes on the
superb buxom beauty. Her brown, tanned skin shone with health and her every move was
duplicated doubly by her ripe bouncing breasts. Thus prepared, the cadi ordered her to the
block. “Take your position Sultana, I’m sure you know what to do,” said the cadi and
indeed Yasmina was aware.
The block was really a low, heavy wooden bench, made of thick wooden planks, such
that when a girl was laid upon it, she was suitably raised to somewhat waist height, or
just below and hence conveniently poised for another to thrash her. Yasmina was at least
glad to be spared the hideous A-frame and went to the bench and meekly knelt over it,
pressing her fabulous chest and rounded stomach to its unyielding surface, glad at least
to be able to hide her arousal from the eagerly watching group. Once in position, the two
floggers who had put down their canes, proceeded to pull Yasmina’s arms fully in front of
her and bound them tightly to a thick block at the head of the bench, positioned there for
that purpose, so that Yasmina was kneeling on the floor, but lying prone upon the bench.
There was a pause, as the one soldier looked at the cadi for his cue. The cadi nodded his
assent, “proceed!” he said and with that, Yasmina was aware of the man fingering around
the waistband of her trousers and proceeded to lower them. Yasmina had not expected to be
whipped upon her clothed backside, but it was still singularly unpleasant for the
superior, haughty woman to be stripped before such notable men like an ill behaved harem
slave. Yasmina closed her eyes and bit her bottom lip with the mortifying thought that the
assembled might see further evidence of her arousal amidst the wetness of her pubic hair.
As the soldier lowered her trousers, he detected the unmistakable aroma of Yasmina’s
desire, faint but distinct and musky.
Her trousers were lowered to her knees and then a leather strap was brought over
her waist and cinched down firmly, to keep her in place throughout her beating. Yasmina,
prone and stripped no longer looked the haughty Sultana. Humbled by her superiors, they
were about to display graphically to her, what it felt like when she forgot her position
and stepped over the line.
“Yasmina, I am going to ensure you do not again forget your position and the
constraints that imposes on you by way of the things you say and to whom you utter them. A
sound thrashing now, may well save you from a more severe lashing in the future, when some
other delegate may take exception to something you may foolishly say,” started the cadi.
Yasmina looked both sick and afraid. She had been beaten countless times in the
past. Her upbringing had been a stereotypical one for well bred girls such as she and her
father, the Sultan, had insisted his chosen daughters, of which there were four, should
have the highest regard for their pampered lifestyle, by serving two years in one of the
hundreds of severe and austere religious schools, followed by two years serving in the
women’s desert army. It was a common enough fate for wealthy men’s daughters and for
Yasmina, as for many of her contemporaries, it had been four years of hell. Her wealth and
status outside the institutions, stood for nothing inside and life within those austere
and harsh environs paid no regard for the individual’s pampered life beyond. Floggings and
beatings abounded and the privileged life of a sultan’s daughter, if anything, worsened
her predicament. For every and any opportunity to show Yasmina just how privileged she was
would be displayed most readily. Nevertheless, this did not lessen Yasmina’s dread of her
present position, nor did she approach it in anything like a blasé attitude, if
only because she knew what to expect.
Fixed and fastened, the guards quickly removed their long coats, stripping
themselves to the waist. Placing their coats on the floor in front of Yasmina, she glanced
up at them, to see that they had readied themselves and she could not fail to notice the
broad strong brawny arms of the guards, covered with long, dark hair. How soon all that
latent strength would be put to such good service upon her bare and proffered backside.
They then took up again their formidable four foot rattans and stationed themselves behind
the offered backside of the delicious Yasmina. Both men gently laid their cane tips
against her sweet, deliciously offered nates, in order to gauge their position and stance
when delivering their blows. The gentle touch of the rods against delicate, soft skin made
Yasmina shudder within; it was a dreadful prelude to the impending ordeal.
“In view of my pronouncement Sultana, I have elected to spare you somewhat from
what I would properly consider the beating you should have expected for your shameful
behaviour,” began the cadi. Yasmina was ready for any dispensation the cadi was prepared
to offer, it was to be scant mercy. “Therefore gentlemen,” he addressed his guards, “two
dozen strokes and as always, do not consider the wretched girl’s discomfort when applying
them. I expect you both to lean into your work!” easy for him to announce, but so
hideously unpleasant for Yasmina to receive.
Unseen by Yasmina, but nevertheless sensed, the guards took their station and the
first, to Yasmina’s left, taking swift strides towards his naked target, rattan raised
menacingly, he timed his movements to perfection with well practised skill and at the
correctly allotted moment, lashed his cane furiously down. It howled in the air and then
impacted upon Yasmina’s naked backside, with an incredibly sharp crack. The cane landed
fully across both cheeks of her sweet, well developed bottom, just below centre. Her nates
shuddered and quaked, underlining their pampered weight. Yasmina’s head flew back and her
body jerked violently against the bench top, but the waist strap restrained her movements
perfectly. Her arms, in reflex, also pulled against their fastening, as if she attempted
to throw her hands to the afflicted area. That first crack, leaving a crimson witness line
fully the width of Yasmina’s ample buttocks, had not elicited any verbal complaints from
its recipient, but there were twenty three more like it yet to come.
The second guard repeated the firsts actions, lashing her wide bottom with a
fearsome whack. Again Yasmina’s head was thrown back and this time, with her eyes closed
tight with the grinding pain, she shouted in response.
“Ouch, yeow!” She uttered, all the time fighting to subdue the volume.
The ejecting of the usual court members was little more than a cosmetic effect,
intended to offset somewhat a little of Yasmina’s shame, for clearly the sounds of her
thrashing would be audible to most women who wanted to witness Yasmina’s punishment and
there were many palace inhabitants who did. The cadi flashed a nervous glance towards the
mullah who remained as impassive as ever, but amidst the pained yells of the suffering
beauty, the procurator hid a smirk of satisfaction, as he glanced towards the cadi, trying
to gauge his reaction. The procurator was a keen observer of such events, to watch a
beauty like Yasmina suffer a firm, stiff beating was more than a day’s good entertainment
for him.
Hiss, whack. “Yaagh!” hiss, crack. “Aaar!” hiss, whop. “Gaar!” the beating
continued unabated and as early as the fifth stroke, Yasmina was weeping openly and
howling to each new stroke with abandon. Well used to their victims yelling and even
openly cursing them, the floggers continued their task with undiminished savagery. Hurling
their vicious rattans across the broad expanse that was Yasmina’s sweet, bare bottom. For
the most part, both men lashed across both of Yasmina’s buttock cheeks, but occasionally,
one or other of the soldiers would elect to slice just one side of her backside,
concentrating all the force of that stroke in a very small portion of her wickedly pained
buttocks. Predictably, it was those strokes that bruised and discoloured more deeply and
quickly.
The oppressive heat of late morning penetrated the sun drenched court of the
Sultana and the mullah curtly motioned for the fabulous, statuesque fan slave-girls to be
about their duties. Not to attempt to cool their suffering, sweating mistress, but to move
some air about himself and the other dignitaries that watched the proceedings.
Thwack, smack, crack. The rattans beat an unholy litany on her bare, broad
backside. Again and again, Yasmina’s naked, curvaceous and sweating body, bucked and
jumped, twisted and writhed, before finally, she managed to control her writhing and knelt
still again, to take the next stroke of maddening, grinding, infernal torment. Swinging
from the hip as they rained their canes upon the trussed Sultana, the guards thrashed the
naked, sweating beauty with gusto, ending each smack with a well practised, expert flick
of the wrist that set Yasmina’s buttock cheeks jumping and shuddering. The hall rang with
the slap of the rods and with Yasmina’s cries of pain that followed.
The cadi maintained the count, as, parchment in hand, he drew a line, to match the
one the guard had just scribed onto the gorgeous Sultana’s backside, ensuring in doing so
that he did not allow the flogging to endure further than he had prescribed. Yasmina
jerked and bucked under each heavy stroke and as the flogging progressed and discomfort
increased, she resorted to twisting and squirming her ample and by then, sorely
discoloured bottom, crossed and recrossed with heavy, livid welts. She was frantically
working against her bindings, trying to twist her desperately sore bottom away from the
furious cane strokes, turning her desperate writhing into wild contortions, until the
maddened and frantic beauty remembered herself and gaining some composure, straightened
herself again, to await the next inevitable and most unwelcome stroke. Yasmina, throwing
her head off the bench each time she was thrashed, displayed a face that was at once lined
with pain and despair and very soon, dripping that with sweat, so that strands of her
brown hair stuck to her cheeks and sweaty neck. All along the length of her broad,
honey-brown back, beads of sweat glistened slickly. Her shoulders, similarly studded with
sweat, also trickled as she suffered and struggled to meet the increasing demands of her
punishment. Her arms stretched before her, glistened as did her legs, as she continued to
twist and writhe in a most incongruous fashion.
The count increased, as did Yasmina’s pain and with that increase, so her composure
diminished, so that by the fifteenth stroke, she was a bawling, writhing, sweating heap.
By the twentieth stroke Yasmina was all but broken as each furious stroke was accompanied
by the cadi’s chant of the count. The guards whipped Yasmina with great deliberation and
effort, consequently the count rose very slowly, so that as the guard to Yasmina’s right
delivered the twenty fourth and mercifully final stripe, it was imprinted on her sore,
bruised and frightfully discoloured backside, fully eight minutes after the first.
Hiss, crack. “Yaaagh!” yelled the stricken Sultana, as again she bucked and twisted
as much as her restraints would allow.
“Twenty four!” announced the cadi. “Enough gentlemen” and both the floggers lowered
their fearsome canes and took a few paces back from the awesome scene, mopping their own,
sweating brows and staring openly at their expert scribing written so clearly on the
beauties bottom and thighs. The cadi eyed the gasping, sweating Yasmina coldly. Court
slave-girls were quickly ushered in to attend. Girls, after a cadi’s caning, were not
expected to be capable of standing or walking unaided! The cadi addressed the girls. “You
may release your mistress!” and they scurried to obey, but he next spoke to the stricken
Sultana. “I hope this has been a lesson to you Yasmina and you would be wise to remember,
that this has been no more than a warning. Further ill advised ramblings by you, will
leave me with no alternative but to have you stood before the lash and I will add insults
I have borne, to any others, considering that this beating was not due penalty for the
dishonour already served me. I should be compelled to serve you with sixty stripes of the
cat at least. I assure you Sultana, you do not wish to experience that sort of punishment.
Alongside that, this will be a loving mothers tap, I promise you.” Yasmina knew from
bitter experience in her army days, what the cat felt like. Already the panting Yasmina
had been untied, the waist strap loosened and the girls were helping her up from the
bench, so that her trousers could be raised, preserving what modesty may be left for their
mistress. The procurator stared brazenly at the lovely Yasmina’s hairy bush, as she was
helped erect. Her pants were quickly raised and Yasmina, stooped and sweating, accepted
the cadi’s leave.
“I should thank you cadi, for this lesson in correct behaviour,” Yasmina croaked in
a broken, tearful and strained voice. “If I’ve learnt anything today Master, it is that
even a Sultana is not above civil or religious law,” she noted, as her slave-girls began
towelling sweat from her heavy breasts, stomach, face and arms.
“You are so correct Sultana. I also hope this beating will serve to help you
remember that,” he said and they watched silently, as the sweating, grimacing cripple was
helped from the courtroom to her own private chambers, where her slave-girls could attend
carefully to her brutally bruised and welted buttocks.
Lying shattered and sweating profusely on her divan, her slave-girls tended to her
woefully bruised and broken backside, Yasmina berating and cursing her tormentors, as they
carefully lay cool, damp towels to her wounded nether regions. Both her buttock cheeks and
her upper thighs had taken a tremendous beating and Yasmina winced at the lightest touch.
“A pox on that accursed cadi and those degenerates watching!” She spat
contemptuously. “I could see those perverts getting stiff, seeing me naked and watching me
suffer” and she winced widely, raising herself up a little on her bent arms, causing the
girl attending to pause momentarily, before resuming.
“They have given you a most merciless beating Royal mistress!” observed one of the
girls.
“It’s just what they like,” growled the Sultana, continuing as if she hadn’t heard
the girl. Another peach suited beauty, meanwhile towelled Yasmina’s sweating back and
legs, whilst a third placed damp, cool and aromatically oiled cloths to her forehead.
It would be a long time before the Sultana walked without a limp and even longer
before she sat normally again, but the Sultana would never forget the woeful and
humiliating thrashing those men had administered to her and the presence of the judge,
mullah and procurator, merely underlined the fact that those men, as well as the cadi,
were her enemies and she could expect no mercy or support from them. That was also
something she must remember for the future.
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